What a nice sunset. I wish I had a camera. But I don’t. I wonder if things are more sublime when you can’t save them?
Tag: philosophy
“Blurtso lives in the here and now”
It’s good to live in the here and now, thought Blurtso. It makes tasty food taste better, pretty sounds sound prettier, and friendly people seem friendlier. Of course, it also makes mean people seem meaner.
“Blurtso considers peace of mind”
Peace of mind is the flower of self-respect.
“Blurtso considers the bounty of trust”
Everything I trust… belongs to me.
“Blurtso considers ontology”
I am what I do,
and I do what the universe does.
“Blurtso loses track” (II)
What are you looking at? said Harlan. There’s a knot in one of the roof boards, said Blurtso. Yes there is, said Harlan. I wonder how it grew that way? said Blurtso. I don’t know, said Harlan, the wood around it is smooth and symmetrical. A whirlpool in the stream, said Blurtso. Yes, said Harlan. I wonder if the roof is weaker or stronger where there is a knot? said Blurtso. I believe it’s weaker, said Harlan, because when the wood gets dry the knots can pop out. Yes, said Blurtso, now that you mention it, I’ve seen old boards with holes where the knots had been. I guess there’s no good reason, said Harlan, for a knot to remain in a board after it has already asserted its independence by going against the grain. Maybe this one, said Blurtso, asserted its independence by staying.
“Blurtso proves an ancient paradox”
O.k., said Blurtso, let’s race… one, two, three!
Hey… is that a daisy?
“Blurtso follows his shadow”
Off I go, said Blurtso, following my shadow. Off I go, following my flat friend, painting and unpainting the prairie, darkening each step I take. Off I go, farther and farther, stretching to a place… where darkness… meets darkness.
“Blurtso thinks about grass” (I)
An individual blade of grass is inconceivable. It only exists as the pattern of relationships—seed, soil, roots, water, sun—called grass. An individual donkey is also inconceivable.
“Blurtso loses himself in the breeze”
Somewhere beyond the city, maybe up north, in Maine, the warmth is thickening on the breeze, the mud is hardening underhoof, and voices are swelling on the branches. And a donkey with no place to go is losing himself, in the fragrance of needles and pine.